Cracks
by MsBarrows
Summary: 1st prize in my writing giveaway. Zevran suffers a nasty crack to the head during the fight with the High Dragon on the mountaintop above Haven. Theron Mahariel sits up with him to make sure the assassin stays awake. Fluff with a touch of smut. rated M for m/m content.


Zevran's last clear memory of the fight was of the dragon's tail snaking back and forth, then cracking like a whip. He ducked – but not far enough – and then he was flying. A feeling he was not unfamiliar with, though normally it was caused by a controlled downwards plummet from roof or high window, with ropes to catch you at the end, or pavement to roll out along and hope you did not bruise yourself too badly, or worse. This was flying uncontrollably sideways, and he never saw what caught him at the end of it, but it must have been very hard. He _heard_ the sound of his own skull cracking, just before things went dark.

* * *

There was light, the warm glow of candles, and hushed voices. Someone speaking in worried tones. _Theron_, he thought,and would have smiled if he could. His friend was always so anxious; hard not to be, he supposed, for a Dalish trapped now in the world of the _shem_.

Another voice. Female, and firm, giving instructions. Wynne.

He could not make out what they were saying, but he knew it was of him, and that bothered him. He didn't like being talked of unless he was part of the conversation. He licked dry lips, and opened his mouth to speak, but was incautious enough to move his head as well, turning to look toward where the voices were. All that emerged was a pained squeak, as dark fire lanced through his head.

"Good, he's awake," Wynne said, sounding pleased, and moved into his line of sight, leaning down to touch hand to his cheek and peer closely at his eyes. "You're lucky to be alive, young man," she said, a scolding tone in her voice, then looked over her shoulder. "Don't let him sleep. If he can't stay awake, come get me; further healing might be necessary."

"Yes, Wynne," Theron said anxiously, moving closer to peer down over her shoulder at Zevran. His forehead was creased with worry, and he looked frightened.

Wynne straightened up, and patted him comfortingly on the shoulder. "He should be fine," she said reassuringly.

"I don't feel fine," Zevran managed to rasp out, holding carefully still, voice little more than a whisper.

"That's hardly surprisingly," Wynne said, looking back down at him. "You have a concussion, my dear. I've done what I can for it, and healed the worst of the cracked skull you also had, but it'll be a day or two yet until you're recovered enough to be up on your feet," she explained, then turned back to Theron, patting him on the shoulder a final time. "I'll be in my tent if you need me," she told him, then ducked out through the doorway and left.

Theron moved forward, dropping to sit cross-legged beside Zevran, taking the other elf's hand in his. "You frightened me, _lethallin_," he said.

"I think I would have frightened myself, had I had time to feel so," Zevran rasped out, then shifted his hand a little, lacing his fingers with Theron. "A pity I feel so unwell at the moment. I can think of many enjoyable ways in which you could help me to stay awake."

Theron blushed, then grinned, which made Zevran smile despite the pain in his neck and head. "I'm sure you could," he answered, voice low and more than a little sultry, which made Zevran's grin widen. "I doubt Wynne would approve, however."

Zevran made a face. "When has she ever approved of you and I?" he asked. "She thinks me a distraction from your mission."

"You are that," Theron said softly, and squeezed his hand. "But you're the kind of distraction I need, to keep me sane."

If he could have sat up and kissed Theron, he would have, hearing the longing in the other man's voice. He had to settle for squeezing his hand in turn instead, his thumb stroking firmly across the back of it. "Tell me a story," he asked, deciding to change the direction of their conversation.

"A bedtime story?" Theron asked, mouth twisting into an amused smile. "You're not supposed to sleep."

"No, not a bedtime story. Tell me one of the stories of the Dalish. I heard very few of them in my brief time with the Dalish. I would know more of your... _our_... history."

Theron smiled warmly at him. "All right."

* * *

Theron frowned in thought, trying to decide what story to tell Zevran. There were so many, and he was not an accomplished storyteller. He and Tamlen has always liked to listen to the stories told by Paivel, the clan's storyteller, but when it was just the two of them together, it had always been Tamlen who told the stories. He felt a brief surge of grief at the memory of Tamlen lounging near the fire, telling a story while sharpening his belt knife, on one of their many scouting trips away from wherever the clan happened to be camped.

He sighed and scratched his nose with his free hand, then decided; an old favourite, one he thought he might be able to do justice to.

"I have told you before that this tattoo is the mark of Ghilan'nain, mother of the Halla," he said, running one finger caressingly across the horn markings on his forehead and down the bridge of his nose. "Before she became a halla, and a goddess, she was a mortal woman, and beloved of Andruil, Goddess of the Hunt. I will tell you a story of them; of how they met."

Zevran gave the tiniest nod of his head, before wincing in pain and going still again. Theron thought for a moment, trying to remember the words of the story, the cadence of it, as Paivel or Tamlen would have told it.

"In the long ago, before the fall of Arlathan, before Fen'Harel tricked the gods and trapped them outside of the world, the gods travelled about just as any elf or animal might, and while the gods mostly kept apart, sometimes they were pleased to visit for a while with the elves. We were immortals then; living long ages of the world, and many were the elves who at some point in their lives met one of our gods." He paused for a moment, frowning. "Not that all such meetings went favourably, of course; the gods are capricious, and while they loved us as if we were their children, parent and child do not always see things the same way, nor get along."

Zevran smiled slightly, as if agreeing with the point. Theron continued. "Andruil was Goddess of the Hunt, and took great pleasure in the skill of the elves who followed her ways. Not for them the planting of crops, or the making of things – other than sometimes the weapons of the hunt, and such gear as they might need for their own use – instead they roamed far afield, pursuing game in the forests and across the open ranges. Not usually on their own, for as the Way of the Forest says, 'together we are stronger than the one'. But sometimes a hunter would have a need for solitude, and walk apart for a while. Such was Ghilan'nain, a young hunter who was discontented with her life, and yet wasn't sure why; she was skilled at and enjoyed the hunt, she had many friends among her tribe, and had offers from several of them to share blankets and possibly even their lives. Yet still she felt discontented So she let her clan's Keeper know that she was going wandering for a while, and then left, travelling wherever impulse took her, in search of she knew not what."

Theron paused for a moment to clear his throat, smiling at the way Zevran was watching him so intently as he listened to the story. "She had not thought to be gone more than a week or two, perhaps a few months at most, which was just a blink of an eye in the endless lifetime of the immortal elves. But day after day passed, and weeks piled up into months, months into years. Ghilan'nain travelled so far that even the stars in the skies were changed, the ones that had been in the far south all her life now riding high in the sky, and moving gradually to the north, with strange stars replacing them. Even the seasons had changed, the trees, most of the animals and birds; everything was different. Yet from time to time she would encounter others; strange clans of elves of whom she'd never heard of, yet all the same, all like her own clan, with a Keeper leading them, and following the same gods in the same ways. Some she stayed with for a while – a month, a season, a year or two – but always there came a time when she felt restless again, and would move on."

"In time Ghilan'nain reached a place so far south that the trees themselves vanished, leaving nothing but rocky hills covered in mosses and low-lying plants in the too-brief summer – a summer far colder than the coldest weather she'd ever felt in the far north, with her own clan – and deep in snow during much of the year. And yet even here there was still life; birds and rabbits and foxes, and flocks of wild geese, and vast herds of animals, the caribou and reindeer, and musk ox, that were not unlike the deer and elk and the bison she'd seen elsewhere in her travels. And elves were there, as well, and while they seemed very strange to her compared to her own clan – the way they dressed, the weapons they used – still they had a Keeper, and followed the same gods she had always known, and spoke the same language, and made her welcome."

"She stayed with them for a long time, this furthest south of all the clans, learning from them how to survive in that cold and distant place. How to hunt the white bears and the seals under the ice in winter, how to make a warm shelter out of the cold snow itself. What plants produced edible berries and leaves in the brief summer, what mosses could be eaten, how to make the weapons of bone and horn, stone and ivory tusk that they used, having no wood there. Yet in time the old restlessness returned again, and Ghilan'nain knew it was time to move on again. Further south, to where the snow and ice stayed all year, and no elves dwelt."

"That would be a very long way south," Zevran said gravely.

Theron nodded. "It was. The clan was sorry to see her go, and pressed many parting gifts on her, and wished her well in her travels. And so Ghilan'nain headed south, pulling a sledge of supplies behind her, into the untracked wilderness. Untracked by elf, at least – for even there, where the ground was mostly bare stone, with just small, rare patches of growths, there was life. Lemmings, and rabbits, and birds, and the foxes and wolves and bear that ate them and each other. And the waters teemed with life as well, so for a long time she travelled easily, with food never too hard to find. But in time she reached a place where there was no more open water, and the snow and ice underfoot stayed from year to year, never melting. It was too thick to dig down through to whatever lay beneath it, and there was no more game to be seen, not even old tracks in the snow. There was no more sun; no moon, and nights when the stars could be seen were rare. And she became lost, and wandered for a long time, gradually eating the last of the food she carried on the sledge she still pulled. And she felt very alone, for the first time in her life," Theron said, and squeezed Zevran's hand, feeling the other elf squeeze back.

"Ghilan'nain was weak and light-headed with starvation when she found her way back far enough to find the first trace of game, the tracks of a rabbit crossing the curve of a drift of snow. She took her weapon out and readied it, and followed the tracks for a long way, thinking already of how good the rabbit would taste, and of how much she needed the hot meat and blood, to regain her own strength enough to keep travelling north, to where food could more easily be found. Then she came to a place where the snow was trampled, and stained with blood, marked with the prints of one of the great white bears, which had found the rabbit before she had, and killed and eaten it. She sighed, and then took out the heavy spear she'd need to hunt such a large beast, and followed its tracks in turn, as she had followed the rabbit's tracks."

"It was night, and the sky was ablaze with a glory of colours as it sometimes is, before she came to a ridge in the landscape, and saw a dark cave mouth among a tumble of snow-drifted boulders, and knew she'd found the white bear's lair. She dropped the rope of her sledge, and crept slowly closer to the opening, spear gripped tightly in one hand, keeping low to the ground so as not to make a silhouette against the sky for the bear to see, approaching at an angle such that the slight breeze carried any scent of her away from the opening. All she could think of was the fat-rich meat that the bear would be, once dead, and of how empty her stomach was. She was almost faint with hunger when she finally reached a place where she could see into the cave, and see the bear curled up inside, head turned away from her, the back of the neck an easy strike away from her with her long spear."

Zevran's hand had tightened on Theron's, his eyes bright with anticipation. "And then?" he asked.

"And then Ghilan'nain lowered the spear, and backed quietly away from the cave, returning back to her sledge, and sat down tiredly on it."

"What! Why did she not kill the bear?"

Theron grinned. "So did someone else ask her, as she sat there in the wilderness of snow on top of her sledge, too tired and hungry to take another step. 'Why did you not kill the bear?' a voice asked her, and she looked up to see another woman standing over her, dressed all in white furs and feathers, the pelts of the winter animals, marked here and there with black tail tips and black-barred feathers, so that she blended into the wintery landscape as well as those creatures themselves did. 'You are a hunter, are you not? Did you not think you could kill it, even to feed yourself?' the woman asked."

"And Ghilan'nain drew herself up proudly. 'Of course I could have killed the bear,' she said, knowing well how skilled she was. 'But it is wrong to kill a mother with young, and there was a pair of cubs in the cave as well.' And the woman smiled, for it was Andruil herself, and that was one of Her rules of the hunt; that mothers with young were not to be killed, nor any young under a year in age, nor the hawks that were sacred to her. But before she could praise Ghilan'nain for keeping to her rules even when starved and desperate for food, the young elf fainted. So Andruil gathered up her and her sledge, and carried them away, to one of her homes there in the south."

"When Ghilan'nain woke, she was tucked into a warm bed of furs in a brightly-lit snow-hut twice the size of any she'd seen before, and the air smelled of good food, and the woman was even then ladling a bowl full of a stew from a pot hung over a small fire. And she came and sat on the edge of the bed and helped Ghilan'nain to eat it, for the elf was very weak by then, and sickening from having been so long without food or proper shelter in that cold and empty land. 'I thank you for saving my life,' Ghilan'nain said as she ate. 'I am Ghilan'nain, from the far north, where even the stars are different than they are here. And Andruil smiled. 'And I am Andruil,' she said. 'And I know those northern stars as well as I know these southern ones, and you are welcome in my home.' And Ghilan'nain was too tired to feel more than a mild surprise, and smiled warmly at her deity, and thought only how beautiful she was. And Andruil, looking at the young elven hunter, thought much the same."

Zevran grinned, "I _like_ where this seems to be going," he said.

Theron snorted, then grinned back at Zevran. "I thought you'd like it. Anyway... Ghilan'nain stayed with Andruil for a long, timeless time, being nursed back to health before resuming her wanderings. When she travelled thereafter – and she loved travel, and never did settle in any one place for long – it was often with Andruil at her side, and for many long ages of the world they were closest friends and lovers. Until Ghilan'nain was killed, and Andruil in her grief raised her again, not as an elf - which even a God could not do, her body having been slain – but as a new thing, the beast that we now call the halla. And the halla is as white as the snows in the place where they first met, and wanders everywhere that elves can be found, and gets restless if it is in any one place for too long a time. And Andruil and Ghilan'nain are still beloved of each other, in that place beyond the stars where Fen'Harel has trapped them away from the world they once loved and walked together."

Zevran stayed silent for a long moment, a thoughtful look on his face. "I still like the story, even if the ending is a little sad."

Theron smiled warmly at the elf. "So do I. Because they stayed together," he said, then shifted forward to bend down over Zevran, and kissed him gently on the lips. At least, it started gentle, but then Zevran's hand lifted to cup the back of his head, his tongue teasing at Theron's lips, and it became a considerably more heated exchange than he'd intended. Theron shifted his position, bracing his weight on one arm as he stayed bent down over the other elf, eyes fluttering shut as he moaned softly into Zevran's mouth as the assassin nibbled and sucked at his lips, and tasted his mouth, warm wet tongue sliding against tongue. Finally Theron carefully disengaged himself and sat back up again, feeling a little breathless from the lengthy kiss. He smiled happily at the other elf.

Zevran sighed. "You are making me regret how incapacitated I am currently feeling," he said, eyes half-lidded as he looked thoughtfully up at Theron.

"Not _entirely_ incapacitated," Theron said thickly, closing his hand around Zevran's thigh and squeezing it meaningfully, drawing attention to the definite bulge in Zevran's leggings.

Zevran grinned. "Oh, _that_. That is merely due to my thoughts about Andruil and Ghilan'nain," he said dismissively.

Theron snorted, then smiled, raising one eyebrow. "Quite reverent thoughts, I'm sure?"

"Oh, _yes_ – entirely reverent," Zevran said, with such palpably false innocence that Theron laughed. Then he smirked, hand moving from Zevran's thigh to the lacings of the assassin's leggings. His smile widened into a grin as Zevran sucked in air in surprise; Theron was not normally so forward. But tonight, after his earlier fear when he'd seen the assassin knocked flying by the dragon's tail, only to slam head-first into an outcropping of rock beside one of the hot mineral springs that dotted the mountain-top – tonight, he felt very forward indeed, in his relief that Zevran had survived.

"Not that I have any objections at all to this plan of yours," Zevran said, voice suddenly raspy, "But do try to remember that movement is rather painful for me at present."

"Just lie still and let me take care of things for once, then," Theron said as he drew the front of Zevran's leggings aside, peeling them down far enough to be able to push his smalls down as well, freeing his length, already more than half-hard.

"You are quite determined on this, then?" Zevran asked lightly.

Theron smiled up the length of his body at him. "Yes," he said firmly, then lowered his head, drawing another hiss from the other elf as he licked delicately at the tip of Zevran's rapidly hardening erection.

"Well, I am hardly able to resist at present," Zevran pointed out a touch breathlessly, sounding pleased at the prospect. "Have your way with me."

Theron snorted, then went back to what he was doing, listening with pleasure to the little noises of enjoyment that escaped the other elf as he put lips and tongue – and occasionally teeth – to work. He would have smiled, if he could, when he felt Zevran's hands come to rest on his head, lightly, not constraining him, but making little petting motions at his hair, fingertips sometimes running caressingly along the edges of his ears. He closed his own eyes, concentrating on what he was doing, on the hard length of flesh in his mouth; the taste of it, the texture. Concentrating, too, on the assassin's reactions, every little hitch of breath or sudden jerk of hips or twitch of hands speaking volumes to him. He remembered things Zevran had done to _him_, when their positions had been reversed, and tried one or two of them, tentatively at first, and then with greater enthusiasm when they drew sounds of obvious enjoyment from the assassin.

His own leggings were becoming increasingly uncomfortable, and after a while he had to roll a little to one side so he could reach down and undo his own lacings, pushing aside his leggings and smalls to give himself some relief.

Zevran, of course, did not miss noticing what he was doing. "Let me see," the other elf rasped.

Theron had to lift his head away for a moment, as he rose up and turned enough to change which direction he was stretched out, so his legs were towards Zevran's head instead of down past his feet, his body twisted to tilt his hips upwards enough to expose himself to Zevran's view. As he lowered his head again and licked at the moisture beading on the tip of Zevran's erection, he felt the other elf's hand close warmly around him, and begin a slow pumping movement. He groaned in pleasure even as he opened his mouth further to take in as much of Zevran's length as he could comfortably manage, his free hand closing around and stroking at the parts that he couldn't encompass.

It was much harder to concentrate on what he was doing with Zevran's hand doing such distracting things to him in turn. He tried to stay quiet – they were, after all, in a canvas-walled tent, not all that far from others – but couldn't stop himself from moaning as Zevran's very expert and very _nimble_ fingers tugged and stroked at him. A moan which drew a like sound and a shallow, abortive thrust of hips from the other elf in turn. Followed by a pained hiss and a muttered curse.

Theron lifted his head, laughing softly, and grinned up the length of Zevran's body. "Should we stop?" he asked.

Zevran grimaced. "Part of me feels like I should want to kill you for stopping what you were just doing, and another part of me feels like it will kill _me_ if we continue," he reluctantly admitted.

"We'll stop then," Theron said, dipping his head just long enough to give Zevran's tip a final teasing kiss, before scrambling around to stretch out beside Zevran. The assassin had a very high pain threshold, he knew – for the man to admit to discomfort – especially when they were in the middle of things as they'd just been – must mean be was actually in a great deal of pain. "Should I go get Wynne?" he asked in concern.

Zevran grimaced again. "No. She will guess what we've been up to and scold us. Anyway, neither of us are currently fit to be seen by polite company, are we?" he added, gaze flicking down the length of their bodies to indicate they still-erect states.

Theron snorted, then smiled, and cuddled carefully up against the other man.

"Don't go get too comfortable," Zevran said, voice rich with amusement. "You're supposed to be making sure I stay awake, are you not? You can hardly do so if you fall asleep yourself."

"Bah. True," Theron admitted, and sat up again, shifting uncomfortably and wishing his erection would subside a little faster. Unfortunately it was showing no signs of flagging, especially since his awareness of it kept bringing his thoughts back around to what they'd been doing and why he even had one... which _didn't help in the least_.

Zevran chuckled, a low and sultry sound. "Take care of yourself if you need to. I have no objection to merely watching, at the moment, considering I seem unable to adequately participate."

Theron wrinkled his nose at Zevran. "Maybe another time. It'll go away. Eventually," he said, then frowned in thought for a moment, before smiling at Zevran. "We both need a distraction. How about you take a turn with the talking and tell _me_ a story? There's so much about your past I don't know."

Zevran made a face. "You know more than I've told anyone else. Even Taliesin never..." he said, and abruptly broke off, expression darkening. "I would rather not speak of him. Or think of him."

Theron bit his lip. Talking with Zevran about his past was always risky; you never knew what innocent question might send his thoughts off down dark paths, raise ghosts that the assassin was trying to escape. He'd long since come to realize that they'd only beaten Zevran and his ambush so easily because the Crow had not even been _trying_ to win; that he'd _meant_ to be defeated, to die at their hands.

Only when Zevran was lying bound and helpless at their feet had some part of him discovered a desire to live after all. He'd certainly been eloquent in his reasons for why they should spare him. Theron smiled briefly, remembering how charming the assassin had sought to be. And... he _had_ spared him. At the time he hadn't even really understood why he'd done so, couldn't even explain it to Alistair when the other Warden had challenged him on it – he'd had to resort to challenging Alistair to kill the by-then-helpless assassin himself if he was so opposed to the other elf joining them, which thankfully Alistair had no stomach for.

He supposed part of it had been that Zevran was an elf, and by then he was desperately tired of being surrounded by strange shem. Though now... now he thought it was also because some part of him had subconsciously recognized the despair and desire for death that the other elf was feeling, so similar to his own feelings after he'd lost Tamlen, and been forced by circumstances and the Keeper to leave his clan, to walk away from the only life he'd ever known and wanted, leave behind every friend he'd ever had. As Zevran himself had done, walking away from his life in Antiva City to seek death in the Ferelden back-lands.

"Well, that seems to have dealt with our little problems," Zevran said tiredly, grimacing. Theron flushed, then nodded; neither of them was now in any mood – emotionally _or_ physically – for further mischief.

"Might as well change for bed – at least as much as we can when you shouldn't move about," Theron said. Zevran nodded fractionally, and Theron dug in their packs. He couldn't remove all of Zevran's armour, but stripped off what he could and did his best to make the other elf comfortable before stripping down and changing into his own nightshirt. A human affectation that he'd picked up – he'd have preferred sleeping naked, but it was far colder here than in the lands the clan had travelled, and as Alistair had diplomatically pointed out after one rather memorably early morning attack, wearing clothes to bed meant you didn't have to dash around naked in the event of a nighttime surprise. Remembering the amused looks on Morrigan and Leliana's faces and the way that Wynne had very carefully not said anything at all about it never failed to turn him red. And always wear clothes to bed.

He rearranged some of their bags to make a backrest for himself, and sat back, watching Zevran. "Tell me a story anyway," he said. "Not about your past, if you don't want to. Some Antivan fishwife's tale or similar."

Zevran gave a brief laugh, and smiled. "Ahhh, I know many of those. All right," he said agreeably, and told a story, a very long and involved one, about a man who caught a talking fish that granted wishes, and learned the dangers of having wishes fulfilled.

It reminded Theron of a somewhat similar Dalish story of Fen'Harel, when a trapper found the Dread Wolf caught in one of his traps, and the chaos that ensued when the trickster god granted some of his wishes in exchange for freedom. They passed the night that way, telling stories back and forth in turn, voices becoming increasingly slurred with tiredness. It was surprisingly pleasant, lying there in the dimly lit tent, talking quietly and sharing stories. It reminded him of times with Tamlen, sitting up late and just talking about whatever came to mind. A painful memory, that, but a _good_ pain; bittersweet, remembering how close they'd been. He wished briefly that Tamlen was here; he thought he'd of liked Zevran. And smiled, thinking of what having those two colluding together would have been like. No one would have been safe from their mischief.

The tent canvas was going a pale pearly grey from the approach of dawn when they heard the crunch of footsteps outside, and Wynne ducked back into the tent. She smiled approvingly at them, and crouched down by Zevran. "How are you feeling?" she asked, voice warm with concern.

"Tired. And sore. My head _aches_ so..." he said.

She frowned, and then cupped both her hands around his head, closing her eyes as a healing glow sprang up around them. Silence fell as she worked, Theron watching worriedly, Zevran looking calm, though a little tense. Finally she released his head, swaying slightly, Theron hurriedly leaning forward to catch her arm and steady her.

"I've done some more healing, repaired more of what I didn't have the energy for last night. How do you feel now?" she asked tiredly.

"Considerably better, though still very tired," Zevran said.

Wynne smiled. "That's to be expected, with as long as you've been awake – and yesterday was a very long hard day, even before your injury. But the pain is gone?"

"Not entirely. But it is much less."

"Good. I'm going back to bed; I suggest you two sleep as well. The worst of the danger is now past. And once I've rested again, I should be able to do something more about any pain that remains."

"Thank you, Wynne," Theron said quietly.

She smiled at him, nodded her head at Zevran, and ducked out of the tent. Wordlessly Zevran shifted over a little, making room in the bedroll beside him for Theron. They curled up together, and were asleep within minutes, both exhausted by the rigours of the day before, and the long night awake.

* * *

It was warm and bright with sunlight streaming through the canvas overhead when Theron woke again. Some time in the afternoon, he judged, and stretched and yawned hugely, before noticing that Zevran was no longer there.

"Zev?" he called out worriedly, hurriedly sitting up.

"A-ha, good timing on my part," the other elf said as he ducked back into the tent, carrying a plate of food in each hand – bread and cheese, and thinly sliced smoked sausage.

Theron smiled as he accepted one plate, stomach already growling. "How are you feeling?" he asked anxiously.

"Entirely mended. Wynne did some final healing of my too-hard head, and is now taking another rest."

"And the others?" Theron asked even as he tore off a bit of bread and stuffed it into his mouth.

"Alistair has rounded up everyone, and they have gone down to see that Brother Genitivi is well, and search that village we passed through in search of any supplies they can scavenge.

Theron paused in wolfing down his food. "Everyone?"

"Everyone except Wynne, who is sleeping," Zevran said, and grinned. "It will be several hours until they come back. Perhaps we might continue where we left off last night, once we've eaten."

Theron grinned. "Perhaps we might," he agreed, and leaned over to exchange a brief kiss with Zevran. One that had rather too much of bread-crumbs about it, perhaps, but also left both of them smiling warmly at each other. "Zevran..." Theron started to say, then broke off.

"Yes, my warden?" Zevran asked quietly after a moment.

He couldn't find the words to say what he wanted to. Not yet; perhaps never. So he settled for reaching out and squeezing the other elf's arm. "Next time a dragon swings at you... _duck_."

Zevran laughed, a wide grin on his face. "I will endeavour to keep that in mind," he said solemnly. "As long as you remember the same thing."

"_I'm_ not the one who cracked his skull yesterday," Theron pointed out dryly.

Zevran shrugged, and smiled. "Still... I would not lose you either," he said quietly, then looked away, clearly uncomfortable with having said even that much.

Theron swallowed a mouthful of bread and cheese past a sudden lump in his throat. "I'll remember to duck," he agreed, voice a touch husky, and was rewarded with a particularly intense look from Zevran that sent a shiver down his spine.

"Then so will I," Zevran said quietly, and leaned over to lightly kiss Theron's cheek. "This I swear."

Theron smiled, and felt something in him relax at Zevran's words. At his promise. "I'll hold you to that," he managed to say, and then had to turn his attention back to his own plate, uncomfortable himself with the turn their conversation was taking.

"Eat up," Zevran said, and waggled his eyebrows comically at Theron. "I have plans for you, once you're finished."

Theron grinned.

Perhaps someday it would be easier for both of them to say what they meant, express what they felt. Some day, when Theron had finally laid the memory of Tamlen to rest, and Zevran had confronted whatever it was that had driven him here, in search of his own death. Some day. For now... what they had was enough.


End file.
